


Waltz

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Crying, Derogatory Language, Dirty Talk, Eddie is Insane, Forced Feminization, Forced Marriage, Inappropriate Use of Compression Stockings, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Rough Sex, Slapping, Softness, Somehow Feelings Are Involved, Voyeurism, Waylon Isn't Far Behind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: “Oh, I’m enjoying the anticipation, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, his voice low and deep for a moment, nothing like the one singing just moments before. Waylon groaned against his skin. “But you can’t hide forever.”Waylon asked for two days, just two days to prove he was the perfect bride just the way he was. Then he had a dumb idea and snuck out to fulfill it.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 29
Kudos: 302





	Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tamarthoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamarthoe/gifts), [Coffeebookboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeebookboy/gifts).



> MY FIRST TIME WRITING IN THIS FANDOM, PLEASE BE KIND
> 
> Lordy I used so many inspiration pieces for this, I'll link them all at the bottom for you guys.

Waylon knew better than to sneak out.

He knew Eddie  _ hated _ to see his darling out among the common filth of genpop in the main block of MPS, but the idea had struck and stuck, and he’d spent the last ten minutes carefully picking the lock on the chain that held him tethered to their bed.

Eddie slept on.

In truth, Waylon had noticed that the man was near-impossible to wake when he decided rest was needed; like a machine desperate for a recharge before it ran out of fuel. Eddie’s hearing seemed programmed to listen out only for the sound of Waylon in pain, or the shattering of glass as someone tried to enter his fortress of solitude in the factory.

He wouldn’t be honing in on the ticking and scratching sounds of Waylon freeing himself from the half-rusted lock.

Waylon didn’t make the mistake he made the last few times he’d escaped; he looked for a pair of shoes to slip his feet into, bundling his ankle up beforehand. Clothes were… curiously absent from the factory floor, despite the entire building having been a  _ clothing factory _ in another life _. _ Eddie had long ago taken the pre-made uniforms and reworked them into his own designs which were dotted around the second and third floors. Where he kept his own clothes, Waylon had yet to discover.

He settled on a sack-dress that at least covered him more than Eddie’s wedding gowns did, and made his way downstairs.

He didn’t plan to go far, just back to the hospital, to one particular closet he remembered hiding in.

Perhaps he was crazy, but--

No. He was  _ definitely  _ crazy. But not crazy enough to actually  _ leave. _ He’d learned from the first time he’d tried.

No one stopped him in the courtyard, nor when he climbed through the window into the men’s unit, squeezing himself immediately behind a metal shelf as he caught his breath and tried to figure out where he was placed in relation to the closet he needed.

It hadn’t been far from one of the storage units; he’d used the boxes in there to climb up into the ventilation shafts to get around. He remembered that much, because he’d curled up in a ball up there and tried not to be sick, the only time he’d allowed himself to waste precious seconds. So, storage unit. And those were usually set near the corners of the building, taking advantage of the extra space.

Waylon listened out for any patients, for anyone anywhere that could do him harm, and suitably comforted by the dulled screams from other floors and none close enough to echo on this one, made his way down the corridor.

In truth, he didn’t think it took him that long to find what he needed.

Sure, he’d met some unwelcome company when he tried the third storage unit and found himself facing that goddamn cannibal again, and he’d had to wait it out in the ventilation shafts til he lost interest or his object permanence shut off and he forgot Waylon was there at all, but once he got what he was after, he made his way back to the window without incident.

It was daytime, the hazy foggy greyness that seemed to linger over the entire facility was back and Waylon hummed to himself. 

Bugger.

Longer than he’d wanted to be gone but… he couldn’t do anything about it now. Just get back and hope his gamble paid off.

In the end, today he was either going to be married or dead.

Both were lifetime commitments, as it were.

Waylon wasn’t three steps into the factory before he heard footsteps on the floor above. He swallowed, clutching his ill-gotten loot against his chest.

“Eddie?” he called, voice as demure as he could make it, as loud as he could make it carry with how dry and sore his throat was. He stepped deeper into the space, eyes not adjusted to the darkness yet, but making out enough not to stumble over anything and hurt himself. “I came back, I didn’t mean to take so long, I was just--  _ shit.” _

He felt Eddie’s arm around his throat before he’d even heard him step nearer. For the sheer bulk the man possessed he moved like a goddamn cat. Waylon didn’t have long to consider how curious that was before he was seeing black spots in his vision. 

“Eddie!”

He dropped what he was holding, both hands up to try and pry Eddie’s headlock off enough to get more words out, to explain, to apologize, to appease him. But the Groom merely lifted Waylon from the ground entirely and held him suspended. Choking, squirming, feet kicking uselessly in the air, boots two sizes too big; the smell of dust and sweat and ozone, heavy breathing in his ear, in and out, in… and out…

_ “Slut!” _

Waylon came to, the sharp slap more than enough to bring him back to consciousness, and wondered why the world didn’t make sense. Nothing was where it should have been, and his limbs felt heavy in a stranger way than normal. His eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head and he was… swinging. He was tethered up, upside down, and swinging from the goddamn ceiling.

_ Shit. _

“Eddie, Eddie wait--”

“How many times,” Eddie hissed, catching Waylon as he swung back from yet another backhand, fingers pressing his cheeks inwards, pushing his lips out of shape.  _ “How many times _ do I have to warn you??”

“I know,” Waylon whimpered, frantic. “I know, I’m sorry, I was getting--”

“Seen by  _ others, _ by  _ them,” _ Eddie let him go with enough force that Waylon was swinging again. He felt dizzy. He felt like he was going to be sick. “Harlot.  _ Whore!” _

“I found a wedding gift!” Waylon cried, his breathing ragged in the silence that followed. He listened to the creaking of the rope as he swung back and forth, a pendulum in the clock that seemed to be counting down to his own demise. He sobbed, eyes closed, and held his breath.

Waiting.

Hoping.

“Darling,”

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ There he was. Still in there somewhere, that part of Eddie that had listened to Waylon’s panicked pleas, that had remembered him from behind the glass, that had kept him whole and well  _ until we wed, _ because Waylon had begged him to.

This time when hands touched Waylon’s face, they were gentle; cupping his cheeks, stroking against his jaw. Waylon shuddered, relieved, and whimpered at the contact.

“You know it is the groom’s duty to offer gifts to his bride,” Eddie murmured, his tone as amused as it was chastising. Waylon tried to nod, but upside down he could only manage an awkward twitch of his head.

“I just…” he felt Eddie’s lips replace where his fingers had been, too-hot and strangely welcome against Waylon’s bruised jaw. “I wanted to show you it was worth the wait.”

Eddie hummed, turning Waylon just enough that they could slot their mouths together. It was awkward, strange, as Waylon hung upside down and tried not to lose consciousness, but the sentiment was there. Forgiveness. Sweet life-giving forgiveness.

“Can you take me down?” Waylon asked after, barely able to keep his breathing even. He wasn’t sure if his nose was bleeding or his brain was leaking out of it, at this point. In answer, the Groom just kissed him again, and Waylon closed his eyes to it, and the unconsciousness that came with it.

_ Awake _ .

Back in the bed but not chained to it anymore, Waylon blinked his eyes open and tried to sit up. His head was spinning, body still trying to understand which direction was up, and he retched, scrambling to the side of the bed so he wasn’t sick in it.

A glass of water appeared in front of him, the leather of Eddie’s fingerless gloves creaking against it.

“You gave me quite the scare,” Eddie murmured, as Waylon accepted the water and forced himself to take small sips. It tasted like iron, but that could have been the blood in his mouth. His nose  _ had _ been bleeding, and now it was bleeding down the back of his throat and filling his stomach with black.

“You know not to leave our home, darling, it’s dangerous out there for someone as delicate as you are.”

Waylon just nodded, for the moment unsure if he could put a sentence together. He’d found quickly that Eddie almost always answered his own questions, even if they were rhetorical. Waylon’s input into Eddie’s imagined perfect relationship wasn’t conversation. Waylon was still trying to figure out what it was.

“Look what you made me do,” Eddie said quietly, reaching out to cup Waylon’s chin and lift his face. He brought a piece of cloth up to gently clean up the blood and tears there. “And on our wedding day, too,” he clicked his tongue, a sharp  _ tsk _ of noise, and drew a thumb beneath Waylon’s eye.

Waylon let himself be cleaned up, let himself be guided closer, into Eddie’s lap, let himself be pressed to his chest and held. He only realized then that he was naked again, just his boots somehow still hanging on to his ankles. He couldn’t summon enough energy to care that Eddie was fully dressed against him.

Considering where they were, what they were, Eddie managed to keep himself clean, to keep himself smelling almost like a normal human being. There was always a must to his clothing, a hint of nostalgia in it that had nothing to do with the style it was cut to.

It spoke of days when these clothes were meant to see the outside world.

It spoke of days when the sun came out once in a while.

Waylon couldn’t remember what sun felt like on his skin anymore. He couldn’t remember why he’d been struggling to get out of here, before Eddie found him. It didn’t matter. He’d been found, he’d been taken in.

“What was this gift, then?” Eddie asked. Waylon could feel his voice vibrating up from his chest, against his larynx. Warm lips pressed the words into his temple and it vibrated there too. It took a moment for the words to register, for them to make sense, and then Waylon felt that flutter of excitement and nerves, the same flicker of inspiration that had driven him out on his crazy quest in the first place.

He pulled back enough to see Eddie, enough to set his fingers to the man’s lips when he leaned in to try and kiss him again.

“I’ll show you,” he said. “If you let me go and get it.”

A shiver ran through Eddie so quickly, like electricity, like lightning, and Waylon set both hands to the man’s face to keep him calm, to keep him  _ here. _

“You can come with me,” he promised, “you can come with me downstairs to get it, but after, you have to let me surprise you.”

It took a moment, two, before Eddie’s eyes lost the glazed look to them. A moment, two, for him to blink at Waylon and for his smile to spread wide again, quirking down to something more mischievous.

“Seductive little thing, aren’t you,” Eddie purred, turning his face to kiss the inside of Waylon’s wrist.

It took several long moments of Eddie’s mouth exploring Waylon’s pulse before he let him free. Waylon stumbled a little, bent to adjust how the boots sat on his feet, and  _ felt _ Eddie’s eyes on him as he did. He hadn’t done it on purpose, he hadn’t done  _ anything _ on purpose. There was just something about him, something that flicked a switch in Eddie’s brain. Waylon was slowly learning how to control it, slowly learning how to keep it flicked up and not down; to  _ darling, _ not to  _ whore. _

They made their way downstairs to the first floor, to the place Waylon had been standing when Eddie had yanked him off his feet.

The little bundle was still there, untouched. Waylon hadn’t expected it to be, if he were honest, but seeing it there, still wrapped in shoddy cracking plastic made him feel warm. He’d brought it back. He’d brought it back for  _ them, _ for  _ this. _ He picked it up and tucked it against his chest again, turning to Eddie.

“The dress?” He asked. Eddie’s smile warmed his entire face.

The dress was on the second floor, in a makeshift chapel, on a corpse still fresh enough that slippage hadn’t kicked in yet. Waylon was more than happy for Eddie to remove it from its previous wearer, and sighed in relief that it wasn’t slimy with fluids or blood. When Eddie looked to him, dress over his arm and brow raised in amusement, Waylon swallowed.

“Upstairs?” he said. Back to their ‘bedroom’, to the only place in the entire factory where you could walk barefoot on the floor, where the dust motes that got caught in the slanting light of the golden hour didn’t smell like burnt hair.

There, he took the dress from Eddie and stepped back behind a screen. There were holes in it, stains Waylon didn’t want to even consider the origin of, but it was something. The closest he could get to modesty.

“Don’t keep me waiting long, darling,” Eddie sing-songed from the direction of the bed. “There’s only so much a man can take, and sleeping with my beloved without being able to touch, well,” a laugh, pitched and almost manic. “You girls are known for your cruelties.”

Waylon was surprised his gambit had even worked. When he’d been spread wide, tied to a wooden crate with a saw about to cut him in half, he’d promised his soul, his body, and anything on it worth saving for Eddie to stop.

And he’d stopped.

He’d turned off the saw.

He’d fondled clever fingers up and down Waylon’s legs before leaving him alone, still spread, still bound for what felt like forever. He’d returned with a straight razor and shaved Waylon smooth, from groin to toes. He’d shaved beneath his arms, he’d shaved the scruff on his face. He’d kissed him, and Waylon had kissed back; God help him he’d kissed back like his life depended on it.

He’d asked for two days, two days to prepare for their marriage bed, and one night to show Eddie he was the perfect bride for him the way he was, without adjustment. If he could, well. And if he couldn’t…  _ well. _

Eddie hadn’t touched him intimately since.

Waylon was running out of luck.

He unwrapped his treasure next to the dress and sighed. Still there, all of it. The bag of alcohol wipes, surgical lubricant, underwear made of basically tissue paper, and compression stockings, white as untouched snow.

_ “When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married, son and see how happy you will be.” _ Eddie’s voice pulled a shudder through Waylon. It was far from unpleasant; that was the problem. It was deep and sonorous, it was lyrical and playful. He sang like a man genuinely in love, like a man  _ happy _ with his life. He sang of a girl that Waylon absolutely was  _ not. _

_ “I have dadadadada!-- that I find, who seems to be just like the little girl I have in mind. I will have to look around until the right one I have found. Hehe!” _

He was pacing, now, slow and measured footsteps back and forth as he waited. And Waylon still couldn’t believe that he was  _ waiting, _ that he wasn’t yanking him out from behind the screen to rape him bent over the nearest surface.

No, he wasn’t pacing. 

He was  _ waltzing _ . 

Waylon could hear the shuffle of one-two-three across the dusty surface. His heart skipped a beat. He was really going to do this. He had no choice but to really just… do this. Do this or die, like the others had. Like he inevitably would if he tried to escape again and go it alone out there.

_ One-two-three, one-two-three-- _

Waylon slipped the dress over his head and let it drop to the floor. It fit him surprisingly well considering he wasn’t exactly built with child-bearing hips. He adjusted what he could, tugging the ties holding the soft corseted top together as well as he was able.

Next, clean up. 

Waylon tore open upwards of a dozen alcohol wipes to give himself the closest thing to a bath he could. He winced as he teased a lubricated finger against himself and pushed in, right after.

He made a sound, a helpless and soft little thing, and immediately bit down on his fist to keep more inside as he worked himself slick.

“Darling,” Eddie hummed, shuffling steps nearing the screen then waltzing away from it once more. “I’d hate to think you’re suffering without me.”

Waylon closed his eyes and added a second finger.

_ “I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old dad,” _

Waylon set his foot to a rickety chair, skirt hiked up around his hips, and slathered more lubricant on his fingers.

_ One-two-three, one-two-- _

Three fingers and Waylon brushed up against something that made his vision turn white. He jerked hard, almost upending himself, and groaned, breathless. The steps beyond the screen faltered in their rhythm. Eddie breathed in deep, and Waylon had to bite his fist again to keep himself quiet. He was trembling, quivering from head to toe as adrenaline coursed through him, cold as ice.

“Oh, I’m enjoying the anticipation, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, his voice low and deep for a moment, nothing like the one singing just moments before. Waylon groaned against his skin. “But you can’t hide forever.”

“I’m nearly… nearly done.” 

Silence.

Breaths.

Somewhere outside, glass smashed, then nothing.

_ One-two-three, one-two-three… _

Waylon nearly fainted when he breathed in again, the relief was overpowering.

He wiped his hands on a nearby rag, washed them clean with another few wipes to get rid of the sticky, slippery residue, and slipped on the pathetic facsimile of underwear he’d found. Then, he stepped out of his boots, gathered one of the compression stockings in his fingers and eased his foot into it. He started with his injured one, biting his shoulder to keep from crying out as he worked the fabric over his makeshift bandage and up and up. It lay against his skin like silk, a comfortable pressure that enveloped Waylon from toe to upper thigh. Gingerly, he set his foot back into his boot and started gathering the other stocking in his fingers.

He didn’t announce that he was finished, he just stepped out from behind the screen. He’d left the boots, standing carefully on his toes to avoid getting the stockings dirty for as long as possible. Eyes down, one hand in his hair and the other holding a handful of gathered skirts, Waylon actually looked the epitome of a stolen blushing bride.

He heart Eddie’s waltz falter, listened as his footsteps grew closer, hurried, and didn’t even have time to look up before a hand grasped the back of his head and he was yanked into a kiss so brutal it left him breathless.

Eddie kissed him like he wanted to eat him alive, like Waylon’s soul was the only thing that could feed him. When they broke apart, both were panting, pressed so close that actually seeing each other was impossible; just hazy shapes of shifting shadows.

“Look at you,” Eddie whispered, his other hand coming up to cup Waylon’s cheek. “My beautiful little girl.”

Eddie kissed him again, and this time Waylon opened his mouth to it willingly, welcoming the unfamiliar tongue between his lips, letting his eyes close and imagine… something else. Anything else. Anyone else.

But Eddie Gluskin remained stubbornly behind Waylon’s eyelids, a version of him not mauled by the machine, not blistered and bloodshot, but handsome, tall. Like he had been when he’d begged Waylon to help him, and Waylon hadn’t--

“Come here with me,” Eddie breathed, his smile evident in his voice, all vulgarity gone from him as he guided Waylon to the bed. Waylon sat, one hand still in Eddie’s the other white-knuckling the sheets beneath him. “Just wait here a moment.”

He did. What else could he do? He sat and he waited, and he winced as he heard something being dragged across the floor, something heavy. Then Eddie came back into view, pulling an enormous shard of a once elegant mirror with him. He leaned it up against a chair, the angle just right for Waylon to see himself reflected in it, and returned to his bride’s side.

“I couldn’t have you miss this,” he said, sitting down and tugging Waylon into his lap, lips tickling their way up his neck, teeth teasing the lobe of his ear. “Not when you’ve made yourself so perfect for me, so beautiful. I knew you were the one, from the moment I laid eyes on you. And then your promises… oh, sweetling, the promises you’ve more than kept to me.”

Eddie kissed open-mouthed and hot against Waylon’s throat and he couldn’t help it, he moaned. Dropping his head back against Eddie’s shoulder, relaxing his grip on the sheets enough that when Eddie tugged him closer -- back against his wide warm chest, back far enough that Waylon could feel just how eager he was for this consummation -- he went without resistance.

“Such soft skin, sweetheart,” Eddie breathed, kissing down over Waylon’s shoulder next, a finger catching against the dress enough to tug it down Waylon’s arm. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

For a moment, Waylon felt it. Despite the circumstances, the costuming, the horror they were in the middle of, he felt wanted. He felt pure. The thought had him laughing, a breathy thing that shifted him back against Eddie further, that welcomed a hand between his knees to spread them.

Eddie guided Waylon’s legs to splay on either side of his own, then spread his thighs just enough to have Waylon almost obscenely open, just a bit of fabric between his legs keeping him covered. Eddie’s hand snaked up Waylon’s throat, a gentle squeeze there, before holding his chin and guiding it down, so Waylon could see the mirror.

“You made me work so hard for it, you minx,” he said, kissing Waylon’s cheek, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “And now you get to watch as I unwrap you.”

So Waylon watched. He looked at himself from the nose down, unable to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He watched the way his lips spread, kissed red, as he caught his breath. He watched the way Eddie’s gloved hands moved over his body, caressing and touching every part of him he could reach. He pressed the dress to Waylon’s stomach, spread his hand wide and large over it as he tucked his head against Waylon’s shoulder again to nuzzle his skin.

Waylon watched as Eddie’s fingers started to gather the dress into his palm, slowly lifting the one thing that kept Waylon covered -- the underwear hardly counted as anything, it actually made it worse. Just before he could be bared, Waylon dropped a hand to Eddie’s panicked, holding him still, keeping himself away from this for just a moment longer, a moment more. He felt Eddie’s breath panted hot against his skin, felt his cock twitch and press thick against his tailbone.

With a swallow, Waylon slid his fingers between Eddie’s and guided his hand up properly, revealing himself for Eddie to see.

The sound Eddie made vibrated through Waylon’s bones. It was primal, feral, and possessive. He gripped the dress so hard his gloves  _ creaked _ with the pressure, his breath coming out as a punch against Waylon’s throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” Eddie praised, his voice cracking a little as it hitched, and Waylon felt himself smile. He’d gambled and won. He curled his toes in his stockings and spread his thighs a bit further, his cock half-hard and tenting the tissue-fabric that barely concealed it. Eddie laughed against him, teeth nipping the base of Waylon’s neck as he moved to pepper his other shoulder with kisses next.

“Naughty thing,” he murmured. “Can you feel what you do to me? How hard I’m aching for you?”

Waylon rocked his hips back, deliberate and slow, and bit his lip as Eddie grasped one thigh with harsh fingers and spread him even wider.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Eddie promised, breathless. He let Waylon go for a moment, just long enough to work his belt free, to unbutton his trousers and open them up. With a groan, he lowered his briefs and freed himself, stroking his cock slowly, knuckles sending shivers up and down Waylon’s back as they caressed it with every motion. “Fill every soft little crevice and space within you until you’re entirely my own.”

He grasped the dress again, gathering it in an undignified pile against Waylon’s back. They both gasped, needy and shivering, when he tore through the underthings Waylon had teased over himself. When Eddie’s fingers sought between Waylon’s cheeks, he groaned, dropping his head back against Eddie again. He felt the hum of pleasure more than heard it.

“So wet for me already,” Eddie sighed. “I do have a naughty girl on my hands. Well, no matter. A well-earned spanking will come after the main event.”

Waylon bit his lip and set his toes to the floor, raising himself when Eddie guided him to, spreading his legs a little wider, just a little more, to accommodate the thick, blunt head of Eddie’s cock as it sought to enter him.

The penetration was slow, and it hurt. Waylon shoved his hand in his mouth again and whined, helpless, when Eddie caught it and pulled it away, whispering that he  _ wants to hear every filthy little noise his little slut makes _ . So he clung to Eddie instead, sobbing by the time he had Eddie entirely in him, spreading him so wide he felt like he was going to split in half. Then a hand slipped into his underwear and stroked his cock, deliberate and  _ wonderful _ teasing that had Waylon’s mind sparking with both pleasure and pain, over and over.

And then Eddie started to move.

Slow at first, one arm around Waylon’s middle to guide his rocking motion, the other between his legs tormenting his cock until Waylon could barely breathe. Then he sped up, breathing filthy fantasies into Waylon’s ear as he fucked him, leaving trails of kisses over his bare skin, licking away goosebumps that came up in their wake.

Waylon reached back and caught a hand in Eddie’s hair, grasping tight and holding on, keeping Eddie’s head tucked against his throat, sucking bruising claim to him there.

“Fuck,” he sighed, biting his lip as his brows drew together. “Fuck I’m close, I’m so close,”

“I do like a girl who claims her own pleasure,” Eddie grunted against him. “Tell me you love me, darling.”

“I love you,” Waylon groaned, teeth gritted as Eddie found that spot inside him that whited out his mind and pulled an orgasm from him that had been building since the moment he’d stepped out from behind the screen. He was still shaking as Eddie continued to fuck him, his hips snapping up to meet every helpless little bounce of Waylon’s body.

“Tell me you want me,”

“I want you,” Waylon whimpered, dropping his hand to grasp Eddie’s, to pull it away from his cock now that he was too sensitive to be touched. He ended up just digging his nails unto Eddie’s wrist instead, gasping pleasure-pained sobs into the echoing room.

“Tell me you’ll never leave me,” Eddie’s voice sounded shattered, like he was coming apart at the seams, like he was clinging to Waylon to stay afloat. And that thought, that Waylon was his grounding, his bedrock, his stability, sent another orgasm through Waylon, his breath hitching, voiceless, in his throat as he quivered.

“I’ll never leave you,” he breathed, tensing his muscles, gripping Eddie’s hair harder as he felt the man shove in deep and fill him up.

They sat suspended for a moment, neither breathing, neither moving; muscles pulled taut and every nerve ending stinging with pleasure. Then Eddie released his breath in a sob and wrapped his arms around Waylon, holding him down and close as he buried his face in his shoulder and wept.

Waylon came back to himself seemingly molecule by molecule. 

First, pain. Aching and throbbing in his ankle, tight and sharp between his legs where Eddie was still firmly pressed, his face, where Eddie had punished him for his indiscretion of leaving.

Then, pleasure. The wetness between his legs, the tingling sensation in his belly, a laugh caught helpless in his lungs.

After that,the rest. Eddie’s weight against him, his own weight against Eddie. Their position, the room, the bed, the mirror… Waylon groaned quietly and shifted, just enough to have Eddie slip free of him, and turned in the tight grip the man had on him to straddle him instead, knees to the bed and sore ankle off the floor. He wound his arms around the crying man in turn and buried his face in Eddie’s hair.

This was it, he supposed. Marriage.

It certainly hadn’t felt this way the first time he’d done it; this felt like an open wound, like every purple prose description of love he’d ever read about. It felt like something Arthur Rimbaud would write about. _ Your chest recalls a harp whose ringing circles up and down blond arms. _ He hummed, linen-limbs tightening in their embrace of the larger man he leaned against, and turned his face to Eddie’s ear.

“Was it worth the wait?” He asked.

Eddie’s laugh felt wet against him. Waylon could feel his smile pressed over his heart before he parted his lips to answer him.

“Yes, my love. Every moment.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Gorgeous art by HamletMachine](https://twitter.com/Hamlet_Machine/status/1099024616910217216)  
> "[Antique](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=49328)" by Arthur Rimbaud  
> "If I Told You Once" - The Circus Contraption Band  
> ...[this is what compression stockings look like](https://e-medicalbroker.com/eng_pl_mediven-struva-23-anti-embolism-thigh-length-stockings-5152_1.jpg) for those not lucky enough to have worn these pre-op.  
> And my two lovely friends who introduced me to this magnificent pairing... a week ago.
> 
> FIND ME ON [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/whiskeyandspite), [CURIOUSCAT](https://curiouscat.me/whiskeyandspite), AND [TUMBLR](https://suntosirius.tumblr.com/)


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